


Whole Lotta Love

by archeolatry



Series: Dean's Top 13 Zepp Traxx [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blue balls for everyone!, Canon Compliant, Castiel's Mixtape, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Dominant Castiel, Dream Sex, Episode: s06e20 The Man Who Would Be King, Led Zeppelin - Freeform, M/M, Not exactly porn actually, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Songfic, Submissive Dean, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry
Summary: Okay, if ever there was a day to get off my ass and finish some Led Zeppelin-themed Destiel smut, it's today. It's Misha's birthday,andRobert Plant's 69th birthday. Huzzah!++++++++++"A small, wounded noise sounded in Dean’s throat, part excitement and part terror. This was not the angel he knew. But, as Castiel pried Dean’s mouth open and roughly introduced his tongue, hewasthe angel Dean wanted."





	Whole Lotta Love

**Author's Note:**

> This work takes place in that wiggle room between the main events of 6x19 and 6x20, once the boys and Bobby return to Sioux Falls.

Dean couldn’t say what caused it, but before he could think, Castiel had slammed him against the wall, knocking the air out of his lungs. The angel already had a fistful of his shirt, his forearm spurring Dean until he was practically part of the wallpaper.

Castiel leaned in, nose-to-nose. “You doubt me,” he growled, “after all I’ve done for you.”

There was no kindness in his voice, no familiarity to its timbre; only the square set of his jaw and cold, steely blue eyes unclouded by sentiment.

 _“I believe you,”_ Dean thought. _“I believe you thought those bones were Crowley’s. I know Sam and Bobby aren’t on board, man, but…”_ But he couldn’t make his voice work.

The rest of him, however, was attentive in the extreme. He licked his lips nervously, his pulse racing underneath the angel’s glare.

The half-light seeping through Bobby’s living room windows—through the still-impotent warding—only made Castiel’s angular features sharper. Made the hollows under his eyes wilder and more desperate. Made the pillowy plushness of his lips more evident.

There were things you just didn’t think about an angel. You just _didn’t_.

But damned if this exact situation wasn’t tucked away in some corner of his spank bank, too intimidating, too far-fetched, to become real. Yet there he was, whisper-close. Perhaps close enough to know that Dean’s pants were becoming constrictive.

Sam and Bobby were asleep upstairs. Had they heard the hard thud of vessel against body against drywall? If so, they’d be downstairs by now, guns drawn. With the clattering of thunder outside, and the sigh of an old house creaking, how could they?

This moment had opened up for them like a rift in time. They might never have another.

Dean leaned in, and, in an incredible display of bravado, pressed his lips to Castiel’s. They landed with a softness borne of need and submission. A request. A prayer.

The offering was accepted, but Castiel’s mouth was unyielding against his own. They _were_ pushing back, however, lush and full against Dean’s; possessing him, sucking at the well of Dean’s lower lip, all the while boring into him with gimlet eyes.

A small, wounded noise sounded in Dean’s throat, part excitement and part terror. This was not the angel he knew. But, as Castiel pried Dean’s mouth open and roughly introduced his tongue, he _was_ the angel Dean wanted. His eyes slipped closed in his abandon.

Had he watched from Heaven as Dean harshly pinched his own nipples, dryly fisted his own cock and imagined that Castiel was the source of the slow, frictive heat? Did he know how Dean wanted those long, thick fingers to cup his cheeks into a perfect **O** and introduce his dick inside one inch at a time?

Dean knew what Castiel was capable of; what could happen to a human body under those hands. And he shivered.

The angel bit at Dean’s lower lip, seizing it between his teeth before letting it go. He loosed his grip and retreated his forearm, now confident that the hunter was pinned.

He placed that hand against the wall. The other hand settled two fingers into the hollow of Dean’s throat, just above the yawning collar of his t-shirt. The cotton parted under Castiel’s fingers like the Red Sea. Down, down, down they went, until they reached the bright copper button at the front of Dean’s pants.

His palm was hot as it lay flush against Dean’s stomach; as it swept over his hipbones; as it pressed against the small of Dean’s back, pinkie dipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. A knee nudged between Dean’s legs, moulding the hunter between Castiel’s body and the wall.

He had to feel Dean’s hardness now; had to know of the desire pooling in his belly.

That hand skimmed over Dean’s ribs and chest, brushing over his nipple so lightly it was if they’d barely touched at all. But his fingers very purposefully found Dean’s tattoo, caressing it before snaking around to the back of his neck. The angel’s thumb stroked Dean’s jaw, and he leaned in to whisper in Dean’s ear: “I should burn this right off of you, and possess you in every way possible.”

A current ran down to his toes and back again. What was it about an angel talking dirty that made the thrill that much more illicit?

Dean craned his neck towards Castiel’s mouth; towards the heated breath ghosting over it. If his grace could sense longing, it would know how badly Dean wanted a territorial bite just above his clavicle, a few scant inches from the imprint of Castiel’s hand.

Instead, Castiel rolled Dean’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, causing Dean to let out a full-body moan. A large hand clamped over Dean’s mouth, stifling him. The sense memory of it took Dean back to the Green Room, the wall, the placement of the angel’s hand. Then, as now, his cock twitched eagerly, practically chafing against the denim. That was how long he had nursed this want.

Somewhere nearby, the opening strains of “Whole Lotta Love” floated into the room. Rather than shaking him from his reverie, the greasy, bluesy guitar and the honeyed strain of Robert Plant’s voice practically creaming in his ear had Dean writhing.

_“Way down inside, a-honey you neeed it,_  
_I'm gonna give you my love,_  
_I'm gonna give you my love...”_

The button on his fly seemed to simply fall away; his zipper opened, but Dean did not recall hearing the noise. His jeans sat loosely on his hips, dragging onto his lower back.

Castiel’s clamping hand raked down Dean’s face, seizing his jawbone and forcing it open. A long middle finger darted inside; it was quickly and hotly cradled by Dean’s tongue until it was spit-slick. He licked at the tip, a promise and an incitement.

The angel’s free hand snaked into the hunter’s pants, knocking them down further still to knead a handful of Dean’s ass, digging in with his fingernails.

Dean’s teeth scraped Castiel’s finger as he stifled a grunt; he pulled it out of the hunter’s mouth with a wet sort of _pop_.

Dean was ready to beg for its return—to plea that he knew better than to use teeth—when the hand on his ass swerved over his waist, past the band of his boxer briefs, past the trimmed scrub of hair trailing from his belly button. His hips bucked towards Castiel’s hand, all but begging now for his touch.

Castiel deliberately avoided Dean's cock, which was now pointing upwards and all but demanding attention. Instead, he stroked the downy fluff at the crease of Dean’s thigh.

_“All them good times baby,_  
_Baby, I've been yer-yearning…”_

He cupped Dean's balls, palming them, teasing the underside with his fingertips. A shameless groan sounded from the hunter’s open mouth. Castiel watched him squirm, with a detachment that bordered on cruelty.

His middle and ring fingers pushed against the hard nut of Dean’s prostate, making Dean swoon. It was only being propped between the wall and the sturdy, bulletproof mass that was Castiel that kept his legs from buckling entirely.

_“Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah…”_

“Is this what you want?” Castiel growled in Dean’s ear.

Dean didn’t have the breath to form words; he only nodded.

The angel’s hand slid slowly out of Dean’s underwear, grazing his balls and the dribbling head of his cock, making Dean whimper. That warmth—that touch—was everything.

“On your knees.”

Dean swallowed and found his mouth quite dry. He stared at Castiel’s lips, as though further instruction or clarification might follow. None came. He found himself sinking down under the angel’s unswerving gaze.

The prominent bulge was perfectly at mouth level, and Dean found himself hungry for it. He’d sucked a total of four dicks in his life— mostly hook-ups from seedy bars. Encounters borne of brief opportunity. He’d never wanted any of them so badly as he wanted Castiel.

Dean’s fingers trembled as they took hold of Castiel’s belt. One hand tugged at the leather, pulling it from the loop. The heel of the other hand rested just at Cas’ pubic bone, picking at the prong of the buckle and letting the whole thing come undone.

_“I'm gonna give ya my love,_  
_I'm gonna give ya every inch of my love...”_

He opened the trouser hooks and zipper, revealing a snug-fitting pair of gray boxer briefs. Cas was—he swallowed again—rather blessed. Not the longest he’d ever seen, but gloriously thick. And the soft fabric skimmed every subtle curve perfectly. The heat and the musk coming off of him was almost more than Dean could bear.

Sam’s voice whispered in the distance. “Dean?”

Dean’s fingers curled over Castiel’s waistband—a little more steady this time—grazing his hipbones as he began to pull them down. The angel’s fingers carded into Dean’s hair, tugging it, getting the beginning of what Dean hoped would be a tight grip.

_“Dean?”_

He snapped awake to find Sam looming over him, one hand steadied on Bobby’s desk.

“Dean, you been out here all night?”

Dean glanced around the room, his heart still jackhammering against his ribs. He straightened up quickly against the chair back. Spread about the desk on either side of him were books and papers, Dad’s journal opened to a page on demons—even a Bible. A dull ache along his spine proved that he had, in fact, been here all night. Must have passed out while researching; the music hadn’t kept him awake as he’d hoped.

_“Keep a-coolin', baby_  
_A-keep a-coolin', baby...”_

A walkman rested on his thigh, dutifully playing **Led Zeppelin II** on auto-reverse. So the music, at least, hadn’t been his purely his imagination; neither was the hard-on currently tenting his pants.

Dean scooted his hips forward, pushing the chair under the desk, hoping to censor himself. In pulling off his earphones, he found that someone had come by during the night and draped a blanket across his shoulders. He caught it just as it was about to slip to the floor. The last thing he needed was to bend or flex or in any way show off the decidedly more-than-morning-wood that he was now sporting.

He pressed the stop button as an afterthought. And he would bet even money that that song was gonna have some kind of Pavlovian reaction on him for the foreseeable future.

“What time is it?”

“Seven A.M.,” Sam replied. “I’m gonna make some coffee. You need a cup?”

Dean tugged at the blanket. It was a big one—twin-size at least. Enough to wrap around himself until he was shapeless.

“You mind if I catch another hour horizontally? My back’s already angry with me.”

“Of course,” Sam nodded. “There’s some ibuprofen on the nightstand if you need it.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.” He’d definitely need it. If not for his back, then for the massive case of blue balls already on the horizon.

Sam made his way to the kitchen. Dean feigned a yawn-and-stretch, waiting until Sam’s back was turned to gird himself with the scratchy wool blanket, clutching the excess fabric just at belly-button level. He managed to slink away as Sam was filling the carafe in the sink.

It was embarrassing enough that Sam could have gotten an eyeful of ‘Little Dean’; he could deal with that. But that he had had a dream—a sexy dream—about _**Cas**_...

 _“No! Don’t even say his name,”_ Dean thought in a panic. _“Don’t even **think** it—he may come flapping in thinking I was praying to him, and then...!”_

He played the situation over and over in his head. He’d fallen asleep, and had a dream about Cas. Not just _about_ him...about being thoroughly and vigorously manhandled by Cas like he was stuck in some angel _pon farr_ mode. And worse, Dean still had a nagging erection straining against the fabric of his jeans.

He pinched his nose, already feeling a headache building. He had to think about it. He couldn’t think about it. _“Don’t think about it.”_ This circular reasoning continued as he struggled with his boots, stripped down to his shorts, swallowed two pills dry.

Maybe he could get back to sleep. Not that he wanted to go back for more of that dream, no! Just to sleep. He’d been overstimulated, that’s all. His head was full of lore and booze and songs were running through his head. Turning his brain off, that’s what needed to happen. _“I’ve been working too hard,”_ he assured himself, before immediately regretting even _thinking_ the word ‘hard’.

He was going in circles. He needed to sleep.

Dean turned the lamp off and tucked himself under the covers, trying to find any comfortable position.

He knew what usually helped him sleep, but he wasn’t going to do that.

He wasn’t even going to think about it. Not even a little bit. Not at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so we all know that Cas wears clean white boxers. But since it's Dean's fantasy, Cas is gonna wear something slightly sexier.


End file.
